


As Long As You're Mine

by haggarrrd



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Child Abuse, Demanding Enjolras, Established Relationship, M/M, Past Child Abuse, argument
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 13:25:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haggarrrd/pseuds/haggarrrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know what? I’m getting sick of this.” And he was, because this was probably the thirteenth time they’d had the same argument, and it was getting them nowhere. “You can keep all the secrets you want, but I’m not gonna be part of it anymore.”</p><p>He got out of the car without another word, and Grantaire scrambled out after him, scarcely remembering to shut the door through the thick veil of panic that had shrouded him, “where are you going?”</p><p>“To stay with Combeferre until you decide that you actually trust me enough to let me in.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. what if I was the secret?

Enjolras had always been a family man, (although if you say that to any of his friends they’d probably laugh at the thought of someone describing him in that way.) His twin sister, Loraine, was his best friend and had been since the day they were born; even after they left their family home, they met up at least once a week, sometimes more, to catch up over coffee, and the closeness of their relationship was only reflected in their faces. They shared the same slim nose, inherited from their mother, the same mahogany coloured eyes and the same sharp, high cheekbones(although Loraine’s take on a more feminine essence than Enjolras’). The only real difference between their appearances, aside from the obvious, is their hair; Enjolras’ golden hair curls around itself to make ringlets that fall just above his shoulders, yet Loraine’s hair is naturally straight and falls down to her waistline. 

Enjolras had always gotten on with his parents too, which Grantaire had always thought was a miracle because, honestly, what child manages to have a good relationship with not only one of their parents, but both? Enjolras did put far more merit in the closeness he felt with his mother than his father, though, but it was all the same to Grantaire. They were a close family; they all liked each other, which was even more mind blowing to Grantaire, who—if Enjolras was to be listened to—was part of the family. Loraine loved the cynic almost as much as she loved her own brother, and his parents always welcomed their son’s boyfriend with open arms. 

Enjolras couldn’t say that Grantaire’s family had welcomed him with open arms, mostly because he’d never met any of them. He didn’t even know what any of them were called, or if the man had any siblings. Grantaire knew that fact annoyed the politics student to no end, but there was nothing that he was prepared to do to change it. He didn’t have a family to take Enjolras home to, and that was all there was to it.

He has a sister, so he supposed that his argument was not completely true, but she took off before he ever even know what the word sister meant; he didn’t know her name, although a murky memory suggested that she was called Francesca. He called her that whenever he thought about her, which he had to admit wasn’t very often. He didn’t know where she ended up after all these years, or where she went when she left their family home; he didn’t even know how old she was, just that she was a fair bit older than him. He didn’t class her as family, because she was just a stranger to him—he could have passed her in the street a dozen times and not even realised, simply because he didn’t know what she looked like. His memories were all twenty years old by this point, and his two year old self had not been particularly gifted at remembering faces. 

As for parents; well, he didn’t really have them either. He never had a mother, and he sometimes wished that he’d never had a father either.

Grantaire didn’t discuss his family; Jehan was the only one who knew anything about them, and that wasn’t through Grantaire’s design. He preferred not to even think about them, although sometimes he couldn’t stop the memories from worming their way into his mind; he usually met them with a bottle of wine, or whiskey on a particularly rough night.

Grantaire knew that it irritated Enjolras that he hadn’t met his family, even though he had considered the other man a part of his own family for the past year. To Enjolras, the concept of being hidden from his boyfriend’s family was obscene, and he couldn’t think of a reasonable explanation as to why they were all still strangers to one another. 

“Why can’t I meet your family?” Enjolras broached one evening as they drove home from his parent’s house, and Grantaire wanted to bash his head against the window; whenever they went to visit Enjolras’ parents, he asked why they never went to go and see Grantaire’s parents, or why he wasn’t allowed to meet them. It was almost a tradition by this point; they went to visit Enjolras’ parents, then Enjolras would ask why he hadn’t met Grantaire’s family, the cynic would refuse to give him a straight answer, and then they’d argue for twelve hours before finally giving in and making up. “You’ve met all of my family; it only seems fair that I should meet yours too.” 

“I tell you the exact same thing every single time you ask, so why do you keep on asking me?” Grantaire groaned in response and ran a hand through his dark curls (a nervous reflex that confuses Enjolras to no end). “I don’t have a family to take you home to, you know that.”

“No I don’t know that because you never talk about them.” Enjolras scoffed and gripped the steering wheel a little tighter; out of the corner of his eye, Grantaire could see the skin of his knuckles turning a little white. “That excuse It getting boring anyway, find a new one.”

“It’s not an excuse.”

If Enjolras heard the weak, whiney tone to his boyfriend’s voice, he pretended not to notice and shook his head instead. Grantaire knew that he was sick of having the same argument over and over again, and so was he. He’d be more than happy to just drop the subject, but Enjolras is Enjolras, and he hated not having answers, “it is an excuse. Are you ashamed of me or something?”

“Are you serious?” Grantaire twisted in his seat so that he could look at the blond properly, an incredulous look on his face. He had to stop himself from laughing, because if anyone had something to be ashamed about, it certainly wasn’t him; he had nothing to be ashamed of at all—in fact, he wanted to show Enjolras off to anyone and everybody at any given chance. Shame had nothing to do with it. He crossed his arms over his chest, “you know how I feel about you, so please stop being so ridiculous.” 

Enjolras didn’t say anything for a couple of minutes, and Grantaire thought that maybe he was going to just drop the subject and finally accept that Grantaire didn’t tell him anything about his parents because there’s really nothing to tell. Of course Grantaire was wrong though, because Enjolras never dropped anything, and when they pulled onto their driveway he said, “you know what? I’m getting sick of this.” And he was, because that was probably the thirteenth time they’d had the same argument, and it was getting them nowhere. “You can keep all the secrets you want, but I’m not gonna be part of it anymore.”

He got out of the car without another word, and Grantaire scrambled out after him, scarcely remembering to shut the door through the thick veil of panic that had shrouded him, “where are you going?”

“To stay with Combeferre until you decide that you actually trust me enough to let me in.” Enjolras snapped as he unlocked the door, and Grantaire thought that his heart was pounding so hard his ribs might crumble to dust. Enjolras was the only family that he had, he couldn’t just let him walk right out of his life. 

“No, no, no. Don’t, just trust me, there’s nothing to tell,” his voice was bordering on hysterical by that point, because their argument just blew up in the space of five minutes and he didn’t understand just how that had happened. Enjolras wasn’t yelling about mistrust and secrets like he usually would; he didn’t even look mad, he just looked as if he’d finally had enough of the entire situation. Enjolras ignored him, and headed straight to their bedroom, so Grantaire really started to worry. He ran after the blond and grabbed his wrist, stopping him from moving any further, “Enjolras, please don’t go. We can talk, just please. Don’t leave me.”

“You’ll tell me about your family?”

Grantaire looked at the expectant expression on Enjolras’ face and knew that it was the only way out of the argument this time. He could either keep his secrets or keep Enjolras, and he knew which he’d rather do. He sighed and nodded, then dropped Enjolras’ wrist and headed towards the lounge. He sat down in the armchair, bringing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them in the way that he’d always done when he was a child. Enjolras followed a few moments later, and sank down onto the sofa.

“Let’s start small,” Enjolras decided with a sharp nod of his head after a couple of seconds of waiting for Grantaire to make the first move. The cynic can tell that he’s still a little angry by the hard edge in his eyes, “what’s your mother’s name?”

Grantaire shrugged, “I don’t know.” 

Enjolras looked annoyed by the answer, and he certainly didn’t look as if he believed it, but there was nothing that Grantaire could do about that; he didn’t know his mother’s name and he never had done. He doubted he ever would. He tried to find out once when he was ten by going through his father’s closet, looking for documents that might give him some answers, but his father found him before he could find any evidence and gave him one of the worst black eyes of his entire life. Enjolras just sighed and shook his head, “I knew you wouldn’t take this seriously.”

“I honestly don’t know!” Grantaire yelled, exasperated, when Enjolras started to stand up from the couch. “I never met her; I’ve never seen a picture of her, I’ve never seen her handwriting, and I don’t know her name.” 

Enjolras just stared at him in shock, and Grantaire knew that he was going to have to start at the very beginning for everything to make sense; he was going to have to tell Enjolras every little detail for the other man to be able to understand why Grantaire kept it secret for so long. He sighed, “my mother died a few hours after giving birth to me, there was some sort of internal bleeding that they hadn’t noticed and she bled out before they could do anything to save her. It broke my father’s heart; they were childhood sweethearts, or something like that, and he adored her. I don’t think he ever considered a world where he’d have to live without her, and in his eyes, I took her away from him. I suppose he was right, in a way.”

Enjolras opened his mouth to protest, a frown on his face but Grantaire silenced him with a sad shake of his head, “he hated me from the day that I was born, because I took the love of his life away from him. He tolerated me as I grew up, just enough to make sure that I was healthy, but he never showed me any kindness. The only tenderness I ever experienced in that house was from my sister, and she was gone by the time I turned three; I don’t ever properly remember her name or what she looked like. I think she’s called Francesca; that’s what I call her anyway. I don’t know why she left, or where she went, but I never saw her again and from that day on it was just me and my dad.”

“He could barely tolerate me,” Grantaire continued in a broken voice, closing his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to watch Enjolras’ reaction. Behind his eyelids, he could see his father’s face, sneering and unkind. “When I got old enough to understand what he was talking about, he used any opportunity that he could to remind me that it was my fault that I didn’t have a mom. When I was old enough to be curious about her, he told me that I had no business asking about her. He wouldn’t tell me anything about her and the only time I ever tried to find out about her for myself he gave me a black eye so bad he had to take me to get stitches.”

“When I turned six, he started to act like I wasn’t there at all. The things he should have done for me, I had to learn to do myself. He spent all his time pretending that I didn’t even exist, and drinking. That’s when things really started to go from bad to worse. He was an angry drunk, and I was the only thing he could take his anger out on. Quite apt really, if you think about it, considering that I was the thing he hated above everything else.”

“That scar on your shoulder,” Enjolras asked in a quiet voice. “Did he do that?”

Grantaire nodded; the scar in question was particularly hideous, a knot of twisted, deformed skin. It’s the only scar he really has, so he supposed he should count himself lucky. The night he got the scar, his father had been particularly drunk—the worst that Grantaire had ever seen him—and his eight year old instincts had told him to find a place to hide. When his father found him, he was twice as mad as he had been originally. His father had pushed him after beating him up a little, and his shoulder had gone straight through the glass coffee table that had been in their lounge. The skin of his should had been completely shredded, so he vowed to never try and hide again.

“He died when I was thirteen,” Grantaire told, his voice a little melancholy despite the fact that his father had tortured him for all of those year. “I think I was more relieved than sad because I was finally free, but I really hated myself for that for the longest time. I went into foster care because they couldn’t find any other family members who were willing to take me in and I bounced between families until I was adopted by the Prouvaires when I was fifteen.” 

“Jehan’s family?” Enjolras asked in confusion; he had known that Grantaire and Jehan had been close for years, but he never knew just how they met. He didn’t even know that Grantaire was adopted. 

Grantaire nodded, “I hated them at first, especially Jehan, because they were so happy and they functioned so well, but they loved me. They looked after me, probably better than anybody else in my entire life has ever taken care of me before. Mrs Prouvaire cooked more food than I could ever possibly eat because she said that I was so scrawny it scared her, and Mr Prouvaire took me shopping at the weekends to buy art supplies. I suppose it’s thanks to him that I actually found art. Jehan became my best friend and my brother when I finally accepted him, he’s one of the best things that ever happened to me. They’re the closest thing to a family that I have but… they’re not my parents. They love me and I love them but it’s not the same. Me and Jehan go home and visit them sometimes, but there’s always something that reminds me I’m not really one of them, no matter how much they make me feel at home.”

“Can I meet them?” Enjolras asked after a couple of minutes of silence. 

Grantaire cocked his head to the side and frowned, “you really want to meet them? Even though they’re Jehan’s parents more than anything?”

“I love you,” Enjolras shrugged, as if it were the only answer that he could ever possibly need. “And they love you too, so of course I want to meet them.”

The blond opened his arms in an invitation, and Grantaire got up out of his seat and sat down next to him, letting Enjolras pull him into his arms and cradle him against his chest. “Grantaire, what happened with your mom… that wasn’t your fault. For your father to blame you for that was evil, and for him to treat you like that for so long…” He shook his head and gripped the cynic a little tighter. “I’m sorry that happened to you. I am so sorry. You were so brave to tell me all of that. No one will ever hurt you like that again, I swear.”

Grantaire hummed, “I need a drink.” 

He detangled himself from Enjolras’ arms and walked into the kitchen; he was far too sober to deal with the memories that his past brought along. He was vaguely aware of the fact that Enjolras was following him as he reached for the whiskey. As he poured a glass, Enjolras snaked his arms around Grantaire’s waist and leaned his chin on the shorter man’s shoulder. He planted a kiss to the skin behind the artist’s ear, and Grantaire managed the slither of a smile as he brought the glass up to his lips. 

“We’ll meet them next week,” he promised, his voice glum. “They’ll be happy to finally meet you.”


	2. I say it with my heart; I love you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You think I care if you fall and hurt yourself, boy? I don’t. You’re an evil little boy, Zacharie, you killed your own mother, you don’t deserve my pity or my attention, now go clean yourself up and don’t let me see you for the rest of the night.”

Before Grantaire even confirmed that they were at the right house, Enjolras could tell that they were outside of the Prouvaire’s household. The house itself looked like a direct reflection of Jehan, and it wasn’t hard to see just where the poet’s influence originated. The bungalow looked as if it belonged more in a fairy tale, rather than in a Parisian suburb. The windowsills were lined with pots that overflowed with bright flowers, and the well cut lawn that lay before the house was surrounded by conifers and small trees that twisted together to create a homely feeling. Enjolras could see Jehan living there. 

“This is it,” Grantaire sighed as he opened the car door and stepped out. Enjolras walked around the car and took his hand, then gave it a firm squeeze to convey his support. The cynic unlatched the ivory gate and led Enjolras through the archway that stood above it, then pulled him down the cobblestone path that divided the grass and paved the way to the front door.

Grantaire chewed on his nails after he knocked on the door, nervous for some unknown reason. He loved the Prouvaires; he meant it when he said that they were the closest thing to a family that he had, but something about Enjolras being there to meet them unsettled him. The blonde’s family were so traditional and they all got along so well, he feared that Enjolras would judge him for the dysfunction that he had been born into (an irrational fear because he knew that Enjolras would never judge him, especially not because of his family.) The Prouvaires would love him, of course, because it was practically impossible to hate Enjolras, and he knew that Enjolras would love the two people who had saved him from the system, but that did little to calm his nerves. 

The door was opened by a short woman, who was bony and had a thick braid of strawberry blonde hair slung over her shoulder. She smiled at the two on the doorstep and instantly pulled Grantaire into a hug, then kissed him on the cheek and pulled them out of the cold evening’s air and into the hallway. She hugged Enjolras too after she finally released her son, then let her hands rest on his shoulders as she appraised him, “You must be Enjolras! Zacharie has told us so much about you; it’s lovely to finally meet you! I’m Josette, Alain is just in the kitchen finishing up dinner.”

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Enjolras smiled. 

Josette released the blonde’s shoulders, then turned towards Grantaire and pointed a playful finger towards him, “Zacharie it has been too long since you and Jehan have been home to see me! As a punishment you can go help Papa in the kitchen while I have a chat with Enjolras.” 

“Yes Mama,” Grantaire grumbled and winked at Enjolras, then headed towards the kitchen. 

“Come, Enjolras.” Josette grinned and indicated for the politics student to follow her. He spared a glance towards the kitchen, half wanting to go with Grantaire so that he could work on getting rid of that uncomfortable look on his boyfriend’s face, but followed the man’s mother for all intents and purposes into the lounge instead. She smiled up at him from her spot on the couch, and patted the seat next to her in indication that Enjolras should sit. “What’s your first name, Enjolras? I’m not a fan of calling you boys by your surnames. I had the same problem with Lucien when he first came to see me with Jehan. Poor Lucien didn’t even know that Zacharie was my boy’s real name until I told him!” She held her hand over her heart in fake horror. “Your mothers gave you all perfectly good names for a reason!”

Enjolras tried not to be jealous of the fact that Courfeyrac had been brought to the Prouvaire’s home before he even learned of their existence. He was more jealous of the fact that Courfeyrac knew that Grantaire had been adopted into the Prouvaire family before he had, but he tried to push the feeling aside. “Thierry.” 

“A lovely name.” She nodded and smiled kindly, and Enjolras was hit by just how much Jehan looked like his mother. He wondered if Grantaire looked like his mother, but supposed he’d never find out. “Zacharie has a lot of positive things to say about you. He thinks very highly of you, it’s a shame that we’re only just meeting you, but better late than never.”

Enjolras smiled politely, unsure of what to say considering he’d only heard of these people seven days ago and in that time had heard very little of them. He didn’t have to, however, as Josette leaned in a little closer and in a muted voice said, “you probably know more than anyone else just how private Zacharie is, considering his past. He’s had such a lonely life but he deserves so much more; he’s special, he deserves the best that life can give him. I’m so glad he found you. Take care of him while I can’t, will you?”

“I promise I will.” Enjolras smiled softly.

Grantaire popped his head around the doorway then and called the two of them to dinner, then retreated to places unknown to Enjolras. When he saw him again, the cynic was sat at the dinner table, and waved Enjolras over to sit next to him. A tall man sat at the head of the table, glasses perched on the end of his nose; the man reminded Enjolras of a Jehan/Combeferre hybrid. The corners of his eyes were crinkled, a sign that he smiled a lot; his eyes flicked over to the blond as he entered the room, and a grin broke out across his face as he sank down into the seat beside Grantaire. 

“Alain this is Thierry, ignore Zacharie when he calls him Enjolras.” Josette informed as she sat down across from Grantaire and picked up her fork. As she speared some food onto her fork, she looked up at Grantaire and smiled fondly, “what have you been up to since the last time you were here?”

++++

“They were so nice.” Enjolras cooed as they slipped back into the car; dinner, in his opinion, had been a raving success. Grantaire had relaxed about ten minutes into the meal, and Enjolras loved watching him interact with the people he considered to be family; he hadn’t ever seen such an expression flit across Grantaire’s face, and he wondered if that was how he looked when he and Grantaire went to see his family.

Grantaire smiled sadly and folded in on himself in the passenger seat, “Jehan’s just like them isn’t he? They’re like one personality divided between three separate bodies.” 

“You’re like them too,” Enjolras said softly and frowned. He couldn’t deny the differences; where Grantaire was cynical, the Prouvaires were bright and idealistic. Where the Prouvaires were open, Grantaire was introverted and private. But there were certainly similarities there, too. Enjolras had noticed them between Jehan and Grantaire before, and had simply assumed that they had picked up some of the other’s qualities because they’d been friends for the past ten years. All four of them had the same mannerisms, and they all cocked their heads to the left slightly when they laughed. 

Grantaire hummed and focused his vision out of the front window. Enjolras sighed and pulled away from the curb; he hoped that Grantaire would let them come back and have dinner with his adoptive parents again, maybe even with Jehan and Courfeyrac, just so that he could see the family as a whole. 

“Can I ask you something?” Enjolras broached, Courfeyrac and Jehan suddenly brought back into his mind. Grantaire nodded and smiled slightly, “Don’t get mad, okay? I was just wondering why Courfeyrac knew that you were adopted but you didn’t tell me too?” 

“I didn’t tell him,” Grantaire chuckled and shook his head. “I couldn’t tell Jehan not to take his boyfriend home to meet his own parents so I think we were pretty much doomed from that point on; I asked him to try and keep it quiet if he could, but you’ve seen the place. They have my school picture up on their mantel piece and there are family photos everywhere; it’d be pretty hard to hide. He doesn’t know anything about why I was adopted, just that the Prouvaires adopted me when I was fifteen.” Grantaire winked and said, “no need to be jealous.”

Enjolras ignored him, “I’m really happy you let me meet them tonight. It means a lot to me, thank you.” 

“You know I’d do anything for you,” Grantaire answered softly and simply, and Enjolras really had no trouble believing him; he’d do anything for Grantaire too. 

“I love you, R.” 

Grantaire smiled fondly and relaxed against his seat, closing his eyes, “I know you do.” 

++++

Whenever Grantaire went to sleep completely sober, as he did the night that he took Enjolras home for the first time, he was plagued by nightmares, and on those nights he was reminded just why he drank so much. It was something that he’d never before had to explain to Enjolras, because the blond had never seen him have a nightmare before; of course his nightmares had been the last thing on his mind that night when he got home, and forgot about drinking for the night in favour of curling up on the couch with Enjolras. 

In his sleep he was nine years old. Back then, he hadn’t thought it was abnormal for a nine year old to walk home from school alone; the other kids got picked up by their parents, but Grantaire had always walked himself home. He could recall only a few occasions on which his father had collected him, but they were long ago; a time when Grantaire couldn’t remember his way home and couldn’t remember that he had to stop before crossing the busy roads. Grantaire’s father may have hated him, but he was also the only thing that he had left to remind him of his wife; he didn’t want the boy dead, as much as he didn’t want the boy. 

On his way home from school on that day, Grantaire had tripped over an untied shoelace; he was still struggling to learn how to tie them, and he dared not ask his father for help. The heels of his palms had scrapped across the pavement, and his knees were littered with little bits of gravel that stung and made the young boy’s knees bleed viciously. Upon seeing the blood, Grantaire had cried instantly; he wailed and picked himself up off the ground, wishing that he had a parent to cradle him and kiss his wounds when they were clean. He rushed home in hopes that his father would hear his cries and the noise would melt his father’s hard heart.

“Papa!” He called the second he was through the door of their home, his voice full of tears as he began to explore the house. He continued to yell out as he looked for the only parent he had ever known, eventually finding him asleep in his bedroom. Aware that he should leave well alone, Grantaire hesitated in the doorway as he continued to sniffle, but the stinging in knees drove him forward, and he found himself shaking his father’s arm to wake him before he even consented the action. 

“What is it?” His father growled when he saw that it was Grantaire, angrier still by the fact that the boy had come to him crying. He sat up in bed as he waited for an answer. The raven haired boy did nothing but look down at his knees and then back up to his father. The older man followed his son’s line of vision, and then his face contorted in disgust. A hand struck his face before he could even see his father raise his arm, and he cried out as he fell to the ground but his father was quicker and was over him; he grabbed his son by the tops of his arms and yanked him so that he was standing. “You woke me up for that?”

Grantaire nodded glumly, the stinging in his knees replaced by the stinging on his cheek. His father continued, “Never wake me up for something so insignificant again. You think I care if you fall and hurt yourself, boy? I don’t. You’re an evil little boy, Zacharie, you killed your own mother, you don’t deserve my pity or my attention, now go clean yourself up and don’t let me see you for the rest of the night.” 

When he allowed himself to, Grantaire could still remember how it felt to be called evil and to be told that he had killed his own mother; he didn’t understand what he was supposed to have done wrong, but he dared not ask. He could still remember the way he had forgotten all of his physical pain the second his father began to yell at him and call him evil, replaced now by a harsh aching in his chest. At the time, he hadn’t understood the feeling as one of sadness; he had thought that he was being punished by a divine power for being so evil, and that it was the consequences of his actions. Grantaire had never felt such sadness before that day, and he would doubt that he had since—of course his father had told him that he was the cause of his mother’s death before, but he had never called him evil. 

Grantaire awoke with a start and sat up, panting slightly as his eyes widened and he looked around the room; he was relieved to see that he was in the bedroom he shared with Enjolras, the blond man sleeping soundly next to him, and not in the room that he had been given when he was a child, but he couldn’t shake that feeling of sadness. He hadn’t remembered that day for so long; it seemed so insignificant—kids fell all the time and scrapped their knees, it really shouldn’t have been a big deal, but then he broke one of his father’s rules and had paid for his mistake. He shivered against the memory, a lump in his throat that refused to move no matter how much he attempted to swallow it away. 

Grantaire got out of the bed as quietly as he could, fully aware that he wouldn’t be able to sleep any further tonight; it would take him hours to shake away the feeling that the nightmare had presented him with, and in his current state of sobriety he knew that he would only be met with another nightmare. Yet he had no desire to go to the cupboard and pour himself a glass of whiskey, as he usually would have. Instead, he went to the draw where he stashed all of his art supplies, and pulled out his sketchpad and his charcoals. 

He allowed his hands to work as he switched his mind off; he swiped the charcoal over the paper, creating dark images that he wasn’t even aware of until after he had finished drawing. He created for hours, his hands flying in a whirl of charcoal, dark smears appearing on his face without him even realising it. When he considered his drawing complete, he set his charcoals down and took a look at the paper; it was probably the darkest thing he’d ever drawn, and yet he was in love with it for reasons unknown to him. It was set in his old bedroom, with a young boy hunched over in fear in the corner between the bed and the wall; only the boy’s eyes were clear to see on his face, and they were wide and terrified. Shadow monsters were clawing their way out from beneath the bed, crawling towards the young boy; the monsters had atrocious claws and twisted faces that made Grantaire shiver, even though he had been the one to create them. 

He set the paper down and lay back on the couch, falling into a dreamless sleep within five minutes without even trying. 

When he awoke again, it was to the sight of Enjolras’ back. The blond man had a piece of paper in his hand, and he was staring at it with a horrified look on his face; it was only after a few minutes that he realised it was the drawing he had created the night before. After a couple of seconds, Enjolras turned around and jumped slightly when he noticed that Grantaire was staring at him, then said, “you drew this last night?”

Grantaire sat up as Enjolras sat down next to him, close to his side. Grantaire’s eyes raked over the picture once again, then said, “I had a nightmare.” 

“Does that happen often?” Asked Enjolras, a slightly horror stricken look on his face. He wrapped his arms around Grantaire’s shoulders and pulled him into a tight, comforting hug. “You should have woken me up.”

Grantaire shook his head, “It only happens when I go to sleep sober.”

“What did you dream about?” Enjolras hedged after a moments silence; he didn’t approve of the fact that his boyfriend drank so much, but he had never before realised that there might be a reason behind his drinking. 

The cynic sighed and leaned into Enjolras a little more, “this one time I fell over when I was walking home from school. I think I was eight or nine? Anyway, I fell over and cut my knees up real bad, they were bleeding so much and I just got scared of the blood, so I ran home crying and woke my dad up. I knew that I was never supposed to wake him up; I wasn’t even supposed to address him unless it was an emergency but my knees hurt so badly and I was panicking, so I woke him up. He got really mad and slapped me, then told me that he didn’t care about me. He said that I was… that I was evil—“ His voice broke when he said the word evil, and tears began to pour from his eyes before he even realised that he felt like crying. Enjolras squeezed him tighter. “He said I was evil and that I killed my mom, so I didn’t deserve his pity. I remember, I felt so sad when he said that, my heart broke, and I thought that I was going to die; I thought it was my punishment for being such an evil child.”

“How did you turn out so wonderful,” Enjolras said softly, inhaling the scent of Grantaire’s hair. “With a father so abhorred?” 

Grantaire merely scoffed in return, so Enjolras tugged on his hand and said, “come on, let’s go shower.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, this chapter started out bad but I like to think it turned itself around?
> 
> As always, let me know what you guys think about it! Feedback is wonderful!
> 
>  
> 
> Ohhhh by the way Grantaire's first name is Zacharie, Enjolras' is Thierry and Courfeyac is Lucien!

**Author's Note:**

> I like giving Grantaire a sob story.
> 
> Ermmm feedback on this one would be great because I really don't know if I like it or not, or if I should just stop writing it now.


End file.
